


Without Fear 3

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Without Fear series by Scala [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jim and Blair explore the paths they have chosen, discoveries are made that will affect the rest of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Fear 3

## Without Fear 3

by Scala

Actually, I think these guys might well be ours, since we seem to know something about them the legal owners don't. And the guys talk to *us* - I mean, what does that tell you?

The usual bowing and scraping to the delectable Kaye for her wonderful beta work. Hugs and kisses to all those lovely people sending me encouragement and anxious emails about when the next part is coming out. Patience, Grasshoppers, all will soon be revealed.

As the number on the story will indicate, this is Part 3 of the Without Fear Series. This means the previous parts will need to be read first or what happens here won't make much sense.

This story is a sequel to: Without Fear 2 

* * *

April 

Jim drove to work carefully, his sunglasses sitting firmly on the bridge of his nose, the darkest he could find. He had his baseball cap on as well, the peak pulled down as far as he could manage and still be able to see. 

He'd left home a little earlier than usual, but the traffic didn't seem to care. He kept his cool however, paying more attention to what he was doing, what he was seeing than perhaps ever before. 

At least it wasn't raining. Rain had been forecast but so far the sky was a wash of fine grey cloud, not enough to produce precipitation, but more than sufficient to reflect and enhance the sunlight, enough to make so much glare he couldn't deal with it along with everything else. 

Everything else being the fact that Sandburg had walked out ten days ago. 

Jim turned into Glossop in the hope of avoiding the traffic on 6th, but it seemed too many others had shared that same hope and he was immediately caught up in the slow drag of rush hour. 

Ten days. 

Where was Sandburg now? What was he doing? Had he begun to regret leaving? Did he have enough money? Would he be able to stay out of trouble? Would he find somewhere, something that would do him some good, be able to give him something back of what he'd lost? Would he ever come back home? 

Jim clenched his teeth together and silenced the endless stream of questions that issued forth from his suddenly-overactive imagination. The same questions that plagued him day and night, sending him to sleep, greeting him first thing every morning for the last ten days. 

It was enough to drive a man insane. And it didn't help at all that for most of the time, those questions were driven forth with an all consuming fury he could barely hide, let alone control. 

Had it really been necessary for Sandburg to actually leave Cascade? Wouldn't a few days away have been enough? Were his problems so insurmountable that he really _had_ to walk out on Jim - after he'd promised months ago that he wouldn't go no matter what? So what was the point of making that promise? Why bother saying anything at all when Sandburg must have known at the time he couldn't keep to it. 

So now Jim was stuck here, on his own, dealing with the fallout of Sandburg's desertion. He had to face the loft alone, answer questions from their mutual friends on his own, go to work without any hope that Sandburg might ever ride along with him again. 

And then, of course, there were the senses. 

What, he could only wonder, did primitive sentinels do when their guides decided to pack up and leave? Did _they_ just stop work and drop tools? Were they still expected to function normally? Were they still relied upon to produce results, even though their ability to do so had been cut in half? 

'Damn you, Sandburg!' 

The moment the words were hissed out, he pulled in a breath and clenched his jaw. No. He didn't have the right to be angry. Sandburg wasn't doing this deliberately to hurt Jim. He was doing it because he had to and Jim sitting here clenching his teeth wasn't doing anybody any good. 

It was the same speech he gave himself every few hours, now as wearying as the list of interminable questions. His whole life had become a repetitive circuit of pointless truisms, voiced into the relative silence of his own head, like a mantra that brought him no calm whatsoever. 

He held the steering wheel tight between his hands, and at the first break in the traffic, he turned into the PD garage. It was so dark underground that he had to pull off his shades, but parking and climbing into the elevator made him put them back on again. He got a few smirks from the uniforms he passed on his way to Major Crimes, but he ignored them. Hell, what point was there to having a bad rep if it didn't provide him with a little peace and quiet now and then. 

There was a stack of files on his desk when he sat down. He glared at them balefully for a moment, then grabbed his cup and stood to get coffee. Would have, except that Simon chose that moment to bellow his name. 

He wished he'd been a little quicker going for the coffee. 

Suppressing a sigh, he headed into Simon's office and shut the door behind him. Simon barely glanced at him - then did a classic double take. For a moment, his expression was stubborn, then he waved Jim to a chair and ordered him to sit. 

'Okay, Jim, what's going on?' 

For tradition's sake if nothing else, Jim replied, 'Going on, sir? What do you mean?' 

Simon gave him a deep sigh, gesturing at the glasses. 'A run-in with some stray golden perhaps? Or are we now seeing the results of you tying one on last night?' 

Jim raised his eyebrows and shook his head in apparent confusion. 

'The sunglasses, Jim,' Simon's patience had worn off a little later than usual. 'Is there something wrong with your eyes?' 

'Oh, no, sir.' To prove it, Jim took off the glasses and blinked at Simon, but the demonstration failed when Jim's eyes began to sting so badly, they watered. He immediately shoved the glasses back on. 

'What's going on, Jim?' Simon's voice was a little gentler this time. As though Jim were a child who'd just lost his favorite toy. 

'Nothing's going on, sir. Nothing I can't handle. It's a temporary glitch. I see just fine. It's just things are a little brighter than normal. It'll settle down in a few hours. It's happened before.' Jim let the lie roll of his tongue. He'd been rehearsing it since he'd had to put the glasses on first thing this morning. 

'Yeah, but has it happened before, when Sandburg was here?' 

'Sure. He says it's just my eyes taking a little longer to adjust to me being awake. It happens when I don't get enough sleep. Really, sir, it's nothing.' 

'Maybe, but I'm not sure I'd trust you to tell me if it _was_ something.' 

'Simon,' Jim began, but the captain held his hand up. 

'Look, the point is, whether this is temporary or not, whether Sandburg knew about it or not doesn't change the fact that without him around, you're more vulnerable than before.' 

'Sir, Sandburg hasn't been riding with me for months now.' 

'True - but he was at least at home, and if you had any problems, we could always consult with him. Now he's left Cascade, we have no idea where he is. There's no way I can let you work alone.' 

'Oh, shit, Simon, don't do this to me.' 

Simon shook his head and turned around to pour himself a cup of coffee. He poured one for Jim as well and placed it on the other side of his desk. 'I'm sorry, Jim, but my mind is made up. Your pride is one thing - your safety is another. And not just yours, either, but anybody you work with. So I'm assigning you a new partner. Doesn't have to be permanent, if that makes you feel better. But I think a three month trial is appropriate.' 

'But, Simon-' 

'Can it, Jim,' Simon broke in, his voice getting hard. 'It's too great a risk. You've got a new partner whether you like it or not - and if I find out that you've been going off on your own, I'll put you on suspension and we'll see how much you like sitting at home on your own all day.' 

Jim clenched his jaw and looked away. He didn't have a choice. He wanted to work alone, wanted to have a chance to find his own balance, without prying eyes watching his every move. Wanted to be able to keep the secret of his senses to himself and not have to trust it to a new person. 

But he didn't have a choice. Simon apparently preferred the risk of a new partner to letting Jim work alone. 

'Fine.' He grunted, drinking half his coffee in one mouthful. 'Who?' 

Simon's slow smile was full of a kind of self-satisfied smugness, with just a hint of revenge, 'Megan Connor.' 

* * *

The Volvo died after the third week of driving. By that time, Blair had crossed the border into Canada and got as far as Calgary before inexplicably turning south to find the first road that crossed the border again. He was a day out of Chicago when, with a cough and a splutter, the car simply passed away, leaving him stranded, reliant on a kindly truck driver to stop and give him a ride into the city. 

It took days to find somebody to look at the car and detail the costly and extensive repairs required to put it back on the road - a lot of money he simply didn't have. So, without blinking, he sold it to a guy interested in collecting that very make and vintage. In the end, he did quite well out of the deal, even if it did mean parting with something so precious to him. But that was what this was all about, wasn't it? Leaving things behind, starting afresh? Wasn't that why he'd left Jim, why he'd left his old, miserable, selfish, self-pitying self behind? 

As an anthropologist, he could never quite switch off his analytical mind. Even as he made these decisions, even as he pocketed the cash and looked around for the nearest bus depot, he knew what he was doing, knew that he would keep doing it until he'd ... purged himself. 

There was no other way to put it. 

And he did feel dirty. He felt tainted and sour, like old milk left in the fridge two days too long. 

The first Greyhound he took was headed east. He sat staring out the window, looking at everything, absorbing nothing. Sometimes somebody would try talking to him and he responded, tried to, made like he could, but always the conversation died away, just like the Volvo had, for want of care and attention, of sufficient energy to keep going. 

When the Greyhound finally pulled into New York, he sat up, craning his neck to see the tall buildings, unable to remain immune to the unavoidable energy within the city. He stowed his luggage at the bus station, not sure if he would stay or go, but a day spent walking around the city did nothing for his disquiet, so that night he got on another bus, hunkered down in his seat, wrapped his scarf around his face and pretended to sleep. 

He must have dozed at some point because he woke with a start when the bus screeched to a halt around two in the morning. Blinking hard, he peered forward to find the driver remonstrating with some man outside before putting the bus back in gear and taking off again. That small indentation in the night was the only thing that stood out in an unending darkness punctuated by fleeting stars and fast headlights tracking north. 

Settling down again, he turned his head towards the window, but there was nothing to see outside, and only his face looking back in reflection. 

He looked like a ghost; dark and insubstantial, pliant, shaking and transparent. His eyes were utterly invisible. 

He couldn't stop looking at himself, couldn't take his eyes away from what he saw, from what had taken him almost a month - almost four months - to see. 

His reflection was more real than him. His substance, his reality had all been bleached away, leaving this frail, patterned, diabolical image pasted against the night landscape, going nowhere, knowing nothing. 

Empty. 

He had no idea how long he sat there, staring at his past before the sun rose enough to burn his image away until nothing more than the merest suggestion remained. And then even that vanished when the bus pulled into a gas station and the passengers all tumbled out to feed themselves breakfast. 

He climbed down after them, stopped by the restroom, then headed inside to find himself a sandwich and a coffee. He stood outside while he ate, letting his circulation reassert itself. He looked around, but recognized nothing. This stop was on the edge of a town, in Virginia by the number plates he could see. He had no idea where he was. 

'Nice morning, isn't it?' 

The voice startled him and he glanced to his right to find a young man munching on a hot dog, slurping from a can of coke. He grinned at Blair, gestured at the sunrise with his icy soda and said through the breadcrumbs, 'Always love being up early enough to see the sun come up. Makes you feel like you'll get a bunch of stuff done.' 

When Blair realized he was expected to reply, he nodded a little, managing, 'Yeah, sure does.' Wondering why this young man would want to talk to him at all, let alone while he was eating so enthusiastically. 

'I'm at school, in upstate New York,' the young man continued, taking another loud swallow from his can. 'Heading home for the mid-semester break. Gotta see the folks, you know?' 

Blair simply nodded, forcing his face to assume the aspect of somebody who cared. 

'All my friends have gone off to Boston for the break. Wished I could go too, but you know, I have to get home and tell my Dad that I'm changing my major. Man, is he going to be mad at me.' 

'Why?' Blair managed, mostly because it was a one-word question. 

The kid shrugged, ''Cause it's the second time I've changed. Thought I wanted to study law, then sociology. I mean, it's tough to know what you wanna do. I hope he understands that. But he's been this schoolteacher all his life and he thinks everybody should just pick something and stick to it. Not that he's happy as a teacher, but you know he's right - just that I want to pick something I like, so it won't be such a drag sticking to it, you know?' 

Blair blinked, sipped his coffee and turned back to the view. Cars, truck and buses cruised by on the road heading north, heading south. There were no crossroads here, but for some reason, it suddenly felt like there should be. 'Pick something you want to do, not something he wants you to do. In the end, _you'll_ be the one doing the job. If you can't live with it, it'll be too late to blame your Dad.' 

'Yeah,' the kid sighed, satisfied, 'that's kinda what I was thinking. I just hope he sees it that way, too.' 

'So,' Blair asked, suddenly genuinely interested, 'what are you going to change your major to?' 

'Um, anthropology.' The kid glanced at him, misinterpreting Blair's abruptly rigid expression. 'That's the study of mankind and its various cultures. I've been reading up about it a lot lately and it's what I want to do. This guy wrote this book, about these people he'd been studying in Kenya, and how he'd lived with them, learning all about them. It just sounded so cool. And then there was that guy from out west, who wrote about these people called sentinels. I read all the stuff that was published in the papers from his book. It was incredible! I tried to order the book but they keep telling me it's not out yet. I really wanted a copy to show my Dad. I did get a copy of the book about Kenya. I knew if he could just read a little bit of it, he'd understand why I want to do this.' 

Ice gripped Blair's belly so hard he couldn't speak for a moment, but another swallow of steaming coffee thawed him enough to murmur, 'And that's why you want to do it, because of those two books?' 

'Well, I've read a few others as well, but it was the thing on the sentinels I saw in the paper that first gave me the idea. Cool, huh? Oh, hey, everybody's getting back on the bus. Time to go.' With that, the young man walked away, his step light, in tune with his hopeful mood. 

Blair stood for a moment, watching the others line up, knowing he should go or he'd lose his window seat. But he couldn't move. In reality, he hadn't been moving for a long time. For maybe two years in fact. Round about the same time he knew he had all the data he needed to write his dissertation. After that, he'd just stayed where he was, hovering, treading water, stuck between the rock of needing to help Jim and the hard place of loving him. 

And this was where it had brought him. Literally the middle of nowhere. 

The bus driver was actually calling to him by the time he finally moved - but he didn't climb on the bus. Instead, he got the man to open the trunk so he could pull out his bags, all the while the driver grumbling that he couldn't give Blair a refund on the unused portion of his ticket. 

He stood and watched as the bus pulled back out onto the highway. He had no idea what he was going to do next. All he did know was that he couldn't get back on the bus with that kid. Couldn't, even for a few hours, allow himself to travel in the same direction as that kid, not even geographically. 

According to the laws of physics, a body traveling in one direction had to first stop before it could change direction - even if that stop only lasted a split second. 

It was time for him to stop. Not just pause, tread water or hover. He needed to stop, and some town in the middle of nowhere was as good a place as any. 

* * *

June 

'Connor, you take the front, I'll go round back. No heroics, remember.' 

'Oh, I'll try to, Jim,' Connor replied dryly, taking out her weapon before heading off for the front door of the small house. 

Jim, with his own weapon held up between his hands, kept his back to the side of the house as walked down the driveway, ducking under windows as he went. He couldn't hear anybody moving around inside, but the way his hearing had been behaving today, he couldn't be sure. 

He took up a position with a clear shot at the back door, and then abruptly, his hearing kicked back in and he relaxed a little as Connor booted the front door open and yelled out 'Cascade PD,' at the top of her more than ample lungs. Jim kicked in the back door, but it only took a few minutes to determine the house was as empty as his hearing had abruptly proved. 

He was wandering back out into the shabby living room when Megan put her gun away and looked him up and down. 'Still playing up?' 

'Yep.' Jim nodded, the admission irritating him, even now. For the most part, Connor was okay with the senses. She'd read Sandburg's notes, had asked as many questions as she could and basically did her best to treat them like any other tool of Jim's trade - but that didn't mean he had to like it. 'It's okay now.' 

'Good.' She looked around the room. 'By the look of this, Terringham's been gone a few months at least. Why can't these blokes just leave us a note or something?' 

'I guess that takes us back to the drawing board.' 

Connor nodded and headed back out the front door. 'And maybe we can do a few tests on your hearing while we're at it.' 

'Tests?' Jim groaned. 'Don't go thinking you're Sandburg.' 

She ignored his protests and climbed into the car. 'Look, Jim, I'm not saying you can't do your job. These sense fritz things happen without warning, but they're not too bad, right? I mean, when your senses fade nowadays, they just go back to normal level, right?' 

'Yep.' 

'So maybe it's a control thing. Maybe you're trying too hard and you just need to practice the controls a little, you know, at home, where you can predict what you're going to hear and see.' 

'Jeez, Connor, you're sounding like Sandburg, now.' 

She gave him a smile and raised her eyebrows. 'Why Jim, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. But I have to confess - he wrote that suggestion in his notes, so I can't take credit for it.' Jim said nothing as she pulled out her cell and called Simon. He had no qualms about listening into the conversation as Simon agreed there was no point in them hanging around here waiting for a contact that was never likely to show. 

'Okay, Captain,' Megan nodded, looking at her watch. 'I'll see you tomorrow.' She snapped the phone shut and glanced at Jim. 'I'll drop you home now. We've got time for half an hour's worth of practice before I have to go.' 

'That's just great.' Jim suppressed a sigh and looked out the side window as she pulled into the traffic. He hated when it was her turn to drive. The fact that she knew that and insisted on doing her share of driving anyway didn't improve his mood at all. The added incentive to go home and to _practice_ controls with her was more than he could bear thinking about. He tried to distract her. 'You're in a hurry to get home.' 

'Yep. I've got a date. Unlike some people in this partnership, I actually have a life outside the Department.' 

'Ooh, ouch,' Jim feigned a chest wound, one side of his mouth curling up as though it might smile some time next year. 

'You know, Jim, you could do worse than go out on a date. Especially now you've got the loft to yourself. I would've thought you'd be wining and dining the ladies in no time. And look,' she smiled indulgently at him in the way she knew would irritate him the most, 'if you can't find anyone to go out with, I have a friend who thinks you're quite cute. She'd go out with you if you asked nicely. I could organize a date for you for Saturday night if you like.' 

Jim rolled his eyes, biting down on the sharp retort he wanted to make. He did a lot of that lately, staying silent when he would rather speak, toning down his responses to her when some days all he wanted to do was to shake her until she just shut the fuck up. 

Except that he knew it wasn't her. Knew that in reality, she was actually a very good cop, and a pretty good partner. He knew that she looked out for him without actually looking after him, that she kept an eye on him without smothering him. That she was aware of his senses, stood back to let him use them and never once made him feel like he was a freak - and she was sometimes very quick with making up reasonable explanations for when he did find something. All things considered, she was about the best partner he could expect under the circumstances. 

The problem was, she _wasn't_ the partner he wanted and that was the basis of most of his hostility towards her. What made it even more galling was that _she_ knew it, and accepted it. Not that she was so very magnanimous about it that she never occasionally snapped back at him - but things weren't so dreadful that he was running to Simon begging for mercy. Considering Megan already knew about his senses, and had proved trustworthy with the knowledge, Jim had to admit he didn't have much to complain about. 

Of course, that also didn't mean there weren't some days when she just needled him for the hell of it. This being one of those days. 

'So, Jim? Saturday night? Her name's Murial. You want me to call her for you?' 

Jim shot her a sideways glance. 'You know very well I'm seeing Steven on Saturday. And thanks for the offer with my love life, but knowing you, I think I'd rather be celibate than go on a blind date _you_ arrange.' 

She was laughing as she pulled up outside 357 Prospect. Jim opened the door and added, 'And thanks for the offer, but I think I can practice on my own. Besides, it'll give you a little more time to get ready for your _date_.' Jim smiled and gave a gesture to indicate that it was in fact, he that was being generous. 'I'll pick you up tomorrow - bright and early.' 

He was out of the car and into his building before she could protest. If she said anything under her breath about how stubborn and intractable he was, he certainly didn't hear it - mostly because he'd learned long ago not to listen for it. 

It was almost dark by the time he finished with dinner and the clean up. He had a shower and in soft comfortable sweats, he took his beer out onto the balcony and just stood there, listening to the night. 

He'd been very lucky, all things considered. For the last nine weeks, he _could_ have had sense problems bad enough to hospitalize him - but he hadn't. The first couple of weeks had given him some pain and agony, but nothing really terrible - and surprisingly, his senses had never just given out altogether, as they'd done a few times before when he'd been under emotional stress, so he had that to be thankful for. 

No, these problems were different, and while annoying, they didn't really surprise him at all, or at least, they hadn't once he'd realized what was going on. 

And as though his senses knew what he was thinking, his hearing went weird again. He had no choice but to stand there and watch, utterly incapable of recapturing control as his hearing split in two. Short range sounds faded quickly away to nothing, while his long-range hearing spiked, almost dangerously. It ranged further and further, until he could hear conversations of people down by the waterfront - he could hear a couple talking about how nice the water was to paddle in. He could hear them drinking from a soda can, even the soft moistness of a shared kiss. 

Then, as though tiring of that, his hearing changed direction, sliding out over the city reaching things he could identify at the city's edge. He could hear and recognize these sounds, but he could do nothing to bring his hearing back under control until it had finished what it was doing. 

His senses were looking for Sandburg. 

It didn't happen every day, but maybe every three or four days. Mostly it was hearing, occasionally sight or smell. Every time it was the same thing, this seeking for something that couldn't be found. 

And every time it happened, it eroded his anger just a little more. He didn't look forward to the day it died because he knew that the moment he'd stop being angry, he'd start being afraid and then he would have absolutely nothing to hold onto. 

Slowly, gradually, his hearing once again failed to hear the voice - or whatever - it was looking for and returned to him, damping down his long-range and dialing up his normal, short range hearing. The change gave him a moment's dizziness and then he was himself again, a normal, angry man, standing on his balcony enjoying a beer in the early summer evening. 

He was going to have to get a punching bag. Either that, or one day he was going to put his fist into the brick wall of the loft, and there wouldn't be too much of his hand left when he did it. 

* * *

'Just push that end in a little more,' Jim said, holding his end of the shelf up so that Steven could maneuver it. 

'How's that?' 

Jim stood back as far as he could without letting go, then nodded. 'Yep, that's it.' 

Steven picked up the drill and switched it on, boring holes into the timber ready for the screws which would hold it in place. Jim kept his hearing dialed down until Steven finished with each end, only then letting go to get the rest of the tools he needed. His brother picked up the other screws and screw driver and began work at his end of the shelf. 

'How long have you been planning to put these shelves up?' 

'Oh, I don't know, about a month I guess.' Jim replied evenly. 

'Liar,' Steven said with a grin. 'I saw this wood under the stairs when I was here for Blair's birthday - and that was six months ago.' 

'Yeah, well,' Jim finished up with the last screw and stood back to view their handiwork. 'I just wasn't sure where I wanted them until now.' 

'They look good,' Steven glanced around Jim's bedroom, then back to the shelves they'd spent all afternoon putting together. 'What color you going to paint them?' 

'Haven't decided yet,' Jim replied, gathering the tools to put back in the toolbox. 'I'm thinking a brick red, like the walls.' 

'Sounds good. Or something like blue or green as a contrast.' 

'Maybe.' Jim pulled the toolbox out of the way and picked up the vacuum to hose up the last of the sawdust. He could mop later. 

'If we left now, we'd make the hardware store before dark. I'll be happy to help paint them tonight if you like.' 

Jim glanced across at him, reading only too easily the hope on his brother's face. The sight made him feel ashamed in a way only members of his family could accomplish. He finished his cleaning and straightened up. 'You don't need to keep me company, Steven. I'm fine.' 

'Sure you are, Bro.' Steven shrugged, giving him a half-smile. 'You're so fine you hardly say a word any more - to anyone. Not even at work.' 

Jim rolled his eyes and picked up the toolbox to head downstairs. His brother followed him. 'Megan's been talking again, hasn't she?' 

It had come as something of a surprise to find out that his brother had been dating Megan for the last six months - all without saying a word to Jim about it. In another life, or another time he might have been annoyed about all the secrecy - but these days, he could see why they hadn't told him. There'd been all that trouble with Alex Barnes, then the business with Sandburg and the dissertation and then Blair leaving, and they hadn't wanted to add to his worries. 

As though he would be worried about those two getting together. At first, he'd been unable to picture it, but that had only lasted up till the moment when he'd actually _seen_ them together - and suddenly it all made perfect sense. They were polar opposites, and flirted constantly. Megan had somehow lost her abrasiveness, her need to prove herself, Steven had gained a warmth and confidence Jim had never seen in him, even as a child. Even the meanest part of him couldn't begrudge them their happiness. Without a doubt, he knew that in a few months there would be some kind of announcement about them, formalizing their relationship in some way, though he wasn't sure Megan would go for the traditional marriage concept. 

Then again, maybe she would. 

'Look, Jim, she's your partner. I'm your brother. Why shouldn't she talk to me?' 

'Because, no offense, it's none of her business whether I talk or not. I don't happen to feel like talking. I don't know why everybody's complaining. It could be worse. I could be acting like an asshole.' 

'Like you normally do when something's bugging you.' 

'Nothing's bugging me.' Jim dumped the toolbox under the stairs then went into the kitchen to grab them each a beer. 'Why does everybody think there is?' 

Steven took the beer, leaned back against the counter and studied him, sipping slowly. 'Because you _are_ being unnaturally quiet, because you're _not_ being an asshole. Because Blair's been gone over two months now and you haven't heard a word from him.' 

Jim stared at his brother, shaking his head. For the life of him, he couldn't work out why they wouldn't just leave him alone. Well, okay, not completely alone. But at least once a week there was some conversation about how he was dealing with Blair leaving, how he was getting along on his own, as though he were a child who'd just lost an only parent. Didn't they think he could survive without Sandburg? Did they believe he couldn't even stand on his own two feet any more? Did they really have to keep pushing? 

'So you haven't heard from him, then?' 

Apparently, yes. 'Man, you're like a dog with a bone,' Jim swallowed half his beer and headed for the couch. He sank into it, letting his muscles relax a moment after the exertions of the day. 'Look, sure I miss Sandburg. He's my best friend and I'm worried about him. But I know he'll be in touch when he's ready. I trust him to know what he's doing. He just needs some time out - and the last thing he needs is me chasing after him, or sending out a posse. Why is it so hard for people to understand that?' 

Steven shrugged, perching on the arm of the chair. 'I guess that's not so hard to understand, given what an asshole you _can_ be when you want.' His brother smiled to soften the comment. 'I guess it just feels strange without him around.' 

Sure it felt strange without Blair around. Life felt strange all over. Nothing felt right, nothing felt the same. Oh, he went about his daily routine like always, going to the gym, to work, the occasional socializing with friends or family, chores around the house, but it was like he was suddenly living in a foreign country, the language of which he barely knew. Yet this was the life he'd had before Sandburg, before the senses kicked in. A life he'd once been pretty much content with. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

Simon had actually said that, a week ago - though admittedly after a few beers at Muldoon's. In the middle of the dissertation fiasco, Jim had begged Simon to let things go back to what they'd been like before Sandburg. Somehow, in the midst of his terror, his skin-crawling fear of going public with his senses, he'd mistakenly believed that life would be better without a long-haired, neo-hippy witch-doctor punk in his home, his work, his life. 

So sure, he could admit that he'd been so wrong, he was almost far enough around the track to be right again. But did that mean he had to advertise it to everybody he knew? Did he have to talk about it, admit it to everyone that he had a PhD. in fucking up his life? Didn't his own self-respect deserve a little privacy? 

'Sure it does,' Steven murmured, his expression somber. 

Jim glanced up, momentarily horrified that he'd said all that out loud - but he could tell from Steven's expression that he'd only said the last. The rest, all those lovely, wise and itchy words, had remained inside his own skull, where they belonged. Thankfully. 

'I don't want to pry, Jim,' Steven continued softly. 'And I know that whatever's bugging you is going to take a while to sort out. I guess I just want you to know, to remember that we're here too. You might need to keep it to yourself, and I understand that. You just need to remember that you don't have to keep it _all_ to yourself.' 

For a moment, Jim could only stare at his brother, then found himself nodding. 'Sure, Steven. Thanks.' And then the guilt kicked in again. Here _he_ was, living in his own home, doing his job, enjoying the company of his brother, getting the 'we're here for you' speech, and out there, somewhere, was his best friend, unemployed, no prospects, no friends and nobody to lean on. 

Just who exactly had got the brass ring here? Either way, it sure wasn't Sandburg, and Steven's well-meant offer only deepened Jim's guilt. 

Steven got to his feet, finishing off his beer. 'So, how 'bout we hit the hardware store and pick up that paint?' 

Jim had no choice but to smile, mostly for real. 'Sure, why not.' 

So they spent the evening painting over the new timber shelves, giving Jim an opportunity to paint over the cracks in his own faade, showing Steven a new surface, making it ready for others test out. No, he wasn't alone. But until Blair came back, he wasn't going to be himself, either. And nothing they did or said was ever going to change that. 

* * *

August 

The diner's kitchen was hot. For the tenth time that evening, Blair wiped his sleeve over his forehead to catch the unavoidable sweat that collected there. Every night was the same, which, in reality, wasn't such a bad thing, seeing as how he didn't much like the cold and preferred the heat. 

But the sameness had other advantages. Busing tables, piling plates into the dishwasher, stacking them clean onto the shelves and scrubbing after closing time was boring, menial work. Over-qualified he may be, but it paid the bills, got him out of his tiny one-roomed apartment, and forced him to interact with people. It also gave him something solid and predictable he could rely on. He knew his job, didn't have to concentrate on it much, and the endless monotony on some nights almost acted like meditation on his raw psyche. 

It had taken him almost two weeks to find this job, two weeks during which he'd walked around Richmond still numb, still a little shell-shocked. He'd been close to running out of money, close to having to call somebody to bail him out and the very thought of that had pushed him the extra inch, made him work hard to convince Ned to take him on. 

Which in itself had been something of a success. Simply being able to push himself was something he'd thought he'd forgotten to do. There were other small successes as well. It had taken time, but eventually, his sleep patterns had returned to normal, allowing him the enviable luxury of not waking up feeling like shit every morning. And if he still had dreams about Jim - bad dreams - then he found they were much easier to cope with after eight hours solid slumber. 

And he'd met people, had made a little effort here and there to get to know the people he worked with. Okay, so the effort some days was almost more than he could cope with, but at this point, _making_ the effort was the important thing, right? He was trying. He was doing stuff to get his shit together, pull himself back from the brink he could still see shadowing him. 

But there were days, oh yes, there were days like this one, where his sleep the last few nights had been haunted by images of Jim, of him laughing, or hurting, injured and dying, or touching him, kissing him, holding him as though he'd never let go. It was days like this that made him sure he wasn't ready to go back, wasn't capable of even thinking about it. It was days like this that had him pacing through work, letting his mind wander back over the last three years, remembering Jim, Cascade, Rainier, the PD, friends he'd left behind, and even sometimes, the bad guys they'd put away. 

For three years his life had been full, sometimes way too full. Now it was empty, laced with only this monotonous job, the tentative friendships he'd formed, the mottled grey walls of his apartment. The only thing that gave it any color was the memories of his old life. 

And the fact that he missed Jim so bad it hurt, a dull ache in his chest no amount of deep breathing or meditation ever eased. 

With the noise of the kitchen rattling around him, Blair put the last of the dishes in the washer and switched it on. He then ran his hands under the faucet and dried them on his apron before turning to Ned, the cook. 

'I'm gonna take my break now.' 

Ned just grunted at him, like always, 'You got ten minutes.' 

Blair nodded, heading for the door, pulling off his apron. He hung it on a hook and stepped outside. The night was a little cooler than normal, but actually quite nice after the heat of the diner's kitchen - and out in the back alley, the noise from inside was gone, leaving him a moment to take in a breath, to get himself some place where he could do this. 

He turned right, walking quickly to the end of the alley before turning right again, taking him to the street. At this time of night, it was full of cars, people out enjoying the summer evening, laughing, talking, generally having a good time. He sidestepped groups of giggling teenagers as he made his way to the phone booth. Fortunately, it was empty this time. He stepped inside, digging into his jeans for enough loose change for the call. 

For a moment, though, his hand hesitated before putting the first coins into the slot. Should he do this? Could he afford to? Even with the dreams, the nightmares, was this really the best way he could deal with it? Or was he beginning to rely on something he should now be independent of? 

But damnit, was he supposed to stop caring altogether? Was that the kind of person he was? Was that really what 'detach with love' was supposed to mean? 

No, of course not, and yes, if he needed to do this for a while, so he could calm his sleep, then so be it. If it was a step backwards, then he would just have to find other ways to make it up. 

With sudden determination, he pushed the coins in, and dialed the number. He waited in silence, not staring out the booth, just keeping his gaze down, on his hand, tipping the remaining coins over in his fingers, ears listening for the first clicks and rings and then, for the first grumble of a familiar voice. 

'Hello?' 

Blair took in a short breath and pasted a smile on his face. 'Joel? Hey, it's Blair.' 

'Blair! How are you?' 

'I'm fine. And you?' 

'I'm great. Never better.' 

'Things at the station?' 

'Oh, you know, pretty busy, but we're keeping on top of it. Simon's just come back from a week's kayaking holiday with Daryl. They went to Alaska and had a great time. Daryl just keeps getting taller every time I see him.' 

'Well, he's a growing boy.' 

'Sure is. Everybody else is fine. Um, well, actually I should probably tell you about Megan.' 

Blair tensed, 'What?' 

'She's decided to stay on. She's studying for her detective's badge, but you know she'll do fine. And, um, she's been seeing someone. Gave us all a surprise, I can tell you.' Joel laughed a little, then continued. 'Looks serious, too. The grapevine tells me wedding bells are on the horizon.' 

'That's great,' Blair blinked, his mind automatically guessing that it was Jim. 'Anybody I know?' 

'Yeah, um... It's Jim's brother, Steven. They met at your birthday party, what, eight, nine months ago. I have to admit, they look great together.' 

Megan and Steven. Okay, yeah, that's good. He could see them together. He could relax. He leaned his shoulder up against the wall of the phone booth, shoved some more coins in the slot and asked _the_ question. 'How's Jim?' 

There was a pause at that, as there always was. Then Joel's voice came back, with the same tone, the same inbuilt optimism he had hard-wired into him. 'Jim's fine, Blair. He's doing really well. He and Megan are still partners and seem to be getting along - though they still bicker like an old married couple. Gives the rest of us a good laugh.' 

'So he's okay?' 

'Sure he is. Hasn't had a day off sick that I can recall. I think he turned his ankle last week chasing a suspect, but he was walking around on it that afternoon so it couldn't have been too bad. Other than that, everything's normal. He had the guys over last Thursday for poker, managed to take ten dollars off me while he was at it.' 

'Does he look well?' 

'He looks great, Blair,' Joel's tone was deliberately reassuring. 'He's been going to the gym three or four times a week, and he's playing a little PD basketball on the weekends. I think he's even got a date Friday night - so you don't have anything to worry about, okay? Jim's doing really well, so you just concentrate on what you have to do and don't worry about any of us.' 

'Yeah,' Blair whispered. Jim was okay. Jim was fine. Jim was healthy and even... even dating. That was great. Really good. He could relax now, silence the dreams with confident words of reality. Yeah, he felt better now. He'd been right to make the call. 

'Hey, Blair?' Joel's concern floated over the wires without any trouble at all. 

'Yeah?' 

'How're _you_ doing? Are you working? Do you have a number I can call you at?' 

'Oh, I'm fine, Joel, just fine.' Blair's voice came back online as though it had never been gone. 'Yeah, I got a job - actually I'm on a break at the moment and I have to get back. It's been great talking to you. Thanks. And you know ... don't ...' 

'Tell anybody you called, yes, Blair, I know.' Joe's voice softened then, 'But I know everybody's thinking of you. They'd love it to just know you're okay. Are you sure I can't tell them that much? Even if it's just Jim?' 

Blair closed his eyes, shaking his head, knowing the older man wouldn't see it. 'I don't want to put you in that position, okay?' 

'I don't mind, Blair, really I don't. I mean, it's not like I know where you are, or anything. Please, just let me tell Jim you're okay. I know he worries about you.' 

Blair couldn't help it. It was exactly the kind of thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't ask, and yet, exactly the kind of thing he needed to know. 'Has he said anything?' 

There was a brief pause, then Joel replied, 'Not to me - but I know him well enough to know he's worried. He hasn't been the same since you left. I know he'd feel a lot better if he knew somebody had heard from you.' 

'But you just said he was fine.' 

'He _is_ fine,' Joel caught himself up, took a breath and continued. 'Jim's just fine - but that doesn't mean he's not worried about you.' 

Blair bit his lip for a moment, opening his eyes to look out at the street and the people wandering around having real, three-dimensional lives. 'Yeah, okay, Joel. But just... just tell them it was this one call, okay? Otherwise, they'll want to know why you've been holding out on them. I don't want anybody worrying about me being in one piece because I am, I'm fine. I'm getting my life on track, got some stuff in the pipeline, but I just need a little space, you know, after everything that's happened.' The lies came so easily off his tongue he shocked himself. 

'Of course. Just take care, son, okay? Whatever's going on with you, don't be too hard on yourself. Trust me, it doesn't get you anywhere. We all miss you and we want you to come back, but only when you're ready, okay?' 

'Sure,' Blair nodded, glancing at his watch. He was going to be late back again. 'Look, Joel I appreciate this, really. I'll talk to you again soon. Gotta go.' 

And he hung up before Joel could make another plea for him to return to the fold. He shoved the handset back on the hook and took off at a run for the alley and the kitchen door. He slipped inside and wrapped his apron around him before Ned noticed he was five minutes late. 

He went back to work on autopilot - that's all he allowed himself now. He'd just needed to know Jim was okay, that everyone was okay and that was all the thinking he could afford. He let the relief settle on its own, doing nothing with it, deliberately not sorting through the various bits of information, not wanting to dissect it, mull over it, find ways to interpret it in the worst possible light. That kind of thinking had already done him far too much damage, and in fact, had brought him to this place. So he concentrated on his work, joined in a little on a discussion flying around the busy kitchen about football, a sport he didn't really like. But it didn't matter. He wasn't thinking about _himself_ and these days, that was his only goal. 

And the newly-formed habits worked well, especially with Joel's assurances fresh in his ears. He moved around the diner, collecting plates, stacking them in his arms, wiping down tables, responding with a smile when people talked to him - all like a normal human being, something he hadn't felt in a long time. 

At least, he did up until he noticed the guy on table 12 who cast his gaze over Blair once too often, and then, the next time Blair passed him, he reached out, caught Blair's wrist and gave him a warm smile. 

'Hey.' 

Blair looked down, his eyes taking in all the information he needed in the first two seconds. The guy had short curly blond hair, green eyes and a great smile. He was about Jim's build, about Blair's age. An altogether attractive package. Blair took in a breath, put his professional face on and asked, 'Can I get you something?' 

'Sure,' the guy let go his wrist, glanced around, then added, 'a little more coffee - and perhaps some company.' 

'I'll be back in a moment.' Blair took up his tray of dirty dishes, wended his way through the diner to the kitchen. He then collected a jug of coffee and headed back to the guy's table, not meeting that gaze as he poured. Once he was done, he turned, making for the kitchen, but the guy wouldn't let him go. 

'How about that company?' 

Blair paused. 

Did he want company? Did he want to be company for somebody else? 

Not yet sure of his answer, he lifted his chin and turned back to the guy, looking him over once more, wondering how this guy could find him attractive, when he was six hours into his shift, sweaty, greasy and wearing a dirty apron. 'Sorry,' he replied eventually, softening it with half a smile. 'I'm working.' 

'What time do you finish?' 

'Another couple of hours.' 

'How 'bout I come back later, maybe we could get a drink?' 

A drink? And what? He didn't need to be a mind-reader to know what this guy was after. Question was, was Blair ready for that yet? He hadn't gotten laid since before he'd left Cascade. Hadn't even been out on a date. So maybe this was his chance to take another small step forward, to let himself touch and be touched, allow a tiny bit of intimacy into his life, help him get connected again. 

And well, Jim was dating again, which was great, and perhaps Blair should too. After all, he hadn't gone this long without dating since he was sixteen. If he really was committed to finding himself again, this, by definition, had to be a part of it. 

So he said, 'Sure. That'd be nice.' 

'Name's Blake.' 

And that was enough to make Blair actually smile. 'Mine's Blair.' 

Blake's face lit up with his own smile in response to Blair's. 'Nice to meet you.' 

'Likewise. I better get back.' 

'See you in a couple hours.' 

Blair turned and headed back into the kitchen, plunging himself back into his work. Blake had a nice smile. Nice eyes, too. And it actually felt good to be taking this next step forward, to be striking out at the lack of confidence that had plagued him for so long. So, yeah, maybe he could do this. Maybe this was the turning point he'd been waiting for. 

He emptied the dishwasher again, stacking the plates carefully on the trolley before pushing it back out to the shelves. The diner was still busy, but the big rush was over and things were slowing down a little. He almost wished it would stay busy, to make the next couple of hours go quicker, but on the other hand, perhaps he needed the time to get himself in the frame of mind where he could go out for a drink with this guy, Blake. Where he could actually leave his ugly thoughts and feelings to one side long enough to be attractive company. 

'Mr. Sandburg?' 

Something dreadful scratched at the back of his neck and he turned slowly to see a young man at the counter. A customer, with a few friends obviously waiting for him at the door. 

'Mr. Sandburg? It's me, Cody Waites. Man, what a surprise! I had no idea you lived here now.' 

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, but words still came out of him, from years of experience making up stuff that people wanted to hear, to help him over one awkward spot after another. 'Hey, Cody, how're doing?' 

Cody Waites. From Indiana. Twenty-three years old, father owned a chain of hardware stores, mother a veterinary surgeon. Bright kid - and former student in anthropology at Rainier University. 

'I'm great. Doing some post-grad studies here at Richmond.' Cody glanced over his shoulder towards the people waiting for him, seemingly blissfully unaware of the bitter discomfort his presence was causing Blair. When he turned back to Blair, he included a glance that swept the diner, his eyes lighting up as a thought occurred to him. 'So, what're you doing working in a joint like this? Unless... Man, you're doing a study, right? Something to do with structures of modern societies and attitudes towards those who serve them?' 

It was there, right in front of him, handed to him on a silver platter. A convenient lie - or an assumption already made - enough to slide him out of the uncomfortable and stark reality of his failure. And he was tempted, so very tempted to grin conspiratorially, lower his voice and admit that yes, he was doing a study, but if Cody said anything out loud, it would invalidate his data. 

He almost did it, too. Would have in fact, if Cody hadn't as quickly lost his radiant smile, hadn't at that moment, remembered exactly why Blair was no longer a TA at Rainier, why it was that bright students like Cody Waites shouldn't ever again talk to a fraud like Blair Sandburg. 

Cody's face fell. His cheeks turned pink. He blinked three times, than abruptly dropped his gaze. 'Um, I er... I guess I... um...' 

Something inside Blair cracked open then, something he'd hidden from, ignored and pretended didn't exist. Exposed to the air, it rose sharply inside him, consuming every ounce of progress he'd made. 

He was fooling himself. Had been for a long time. He couldn't do this, and for the life of him, he couldn't work out why he'd thought he could. 

His voice was quiet as he murmured, 'I think your friends are anxious to leave. You shouldn't keep them waiting. It's good to see you doing so well.' 

Cody glanced up at him then, surprise making him frown, but Blair didn't wait for another awkward moment. Instead, he turned and walked back into the kitchen. He stood there a moment, out of the way of dinner traffic, then without really thinking about it, he stripped off his apron, hung it on the door and grabbed his jacket. 

'Where are you going, Sandburg?' Ned yelled at him, his face shiny with cooking grease and sweat from hours hovering over a stove. 'You got another hour before your shift ends!' 

Blair paused at the door, then glanced over his shoulder, 'Sorry, Ned. I quit. Thanks for the job.' 

'Quit? You can't quit in the middle of a shift! Who's gonna wash the dishes?' Ned stormed over to him, frantically rubbing his hands on a dishtowel. 'What the hell's goin' on here?' 

Glancing around the kitchen once more, noting the puzzled looks thrown his way by the others, Blair then looked up at Ned. 'I have to go, Ned, I'm sorry.' Some final shred of self-respect forced another lie out of him. 'Family emergency. It's my mom. I have to go to her.' 

Ned's gaze narrowed, then he sighed and shook his head. The big man tossed aside the dish towel and fished into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a couple of fifties and shoved them into Blair's hand. 'I figure that's about what I owe you for the last week.' 

Surprised, Blair took the money. 'Thanks, Ned.' With that, he turned and headed out into the alley, walking quickly back to the street before turning north. 

It didn't take him long to get clear of the bright lights, until he was pacing along near-empty streets lined with apartment buildings and houses, where small yellow lights shone from curtained windows. Now and then he could hear a TV or a radio, or someone shouting, and it all sounded like so much white noise. 

And that made him stop, on a corner, waiting for the lights to change. But when they did, he didn't walk, and stayed there instead, unable, for some reason, to take a step either way. 

How, in the name of god, had he ever reached the point where he thought the sounds of other people's lives were nothing but white noise? 

There was no answer, only the silence of his empty life echoing his thoughts back to him, cool and chill like the night air. The lights changed again and he walked this time, his pace slower, more deliberate, his legs working as though they suddenly needed conscious thought to make them operate properly. 

He turned right, into his street, but outside his building, he paused and instead of going in, he turned into the small park and took a seat on the first bench he came to. 

He was alone - not surprising at this hour, and of course, most people were afraid of anything that resembled a park at night. With good reason. But right now, Blair couldn't bring himself to think of anything like that. Couldn't think about anything at all except the fact that... that... 

Jim was dating. 

The man he loved, the man it seemed he couldn't live without - that man was dating again. He was doing so well without Blair that there'd been no spikes with his senses, no problems at all. He'd taken on a new partner, who was working out just fine, and he was going to the gym, playing basketball and dating. Life was going really well for him. He was just fine. 

It was so easy for Blair to conjure up pictures of Jim doing all those things. Going to Jags matches with Simon, or out playing pool with H and Rafe. Even having dinner with Megan and Steven, giving them suggestions on places they could go for their honeymoon. In every single picture, Jim looked good, great in fact. His eyes sparkled, he smiled a lot, his body worked perfectly, fit and a little tanned with running regularly and working out. His life as smooth and uncomplicated as it had once been before the senses had kicked in - only now he had them as well. 

Jim... was happy. 

And some dreadful, ugly, nasty and vicious voice inside Blair roared rage at that. At the possibility that Jim - even Jim the best friend - could be happy without Blair being there, at his side. How was it he could just pick up where he'd left off? Did he really not feel anything except a little mild concern about how Blair was doing? Damnit, he _should_ be feeling something! Blair deserved that much at least, after everything he'd sacrificed- 

Blair gasped and doubled over, gut-wrenching pain slamming into him. 

How could he think such things? Wasn't he in love with the man? Well, if so, wasn't such good news about him welcome? Or was he so fucking selfish that he couldn't stand anybody else being happy if he wasn't? Did he really want to spread his misery around so far that a happy, well-adjusted Jim was now the object of his ire? Or was he simply jealous and so hopelessly unable to control his emotions, he had to lash out and cry to himself how damned fucking unfair it was that he was sitting here, unemployed, soon-to-be homeless, without a hope in the world, and Jim, the man he'd sacrificed everything for was coasting along at home, without a care in the world. 

Was he really this ugly deep down? 

What was wrong with him? 

Why, after five months away, could he still not find himself, find the person he'd once been. The person, he'd liked, even loved. Where was that man now? Gone forever? It certainly felt like it, since nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He couldn't _feel_ himself any more, couldn't touch any part of himself inside that felt familiar. Instead, all he got were these awful, dreadful feelings of anger, hate, bitterness and loss. And shame - oh, god, so much deep, dark shame. 

Was losing his career all it had taken to make him like this? But how? He'd lost plenty of things before in his life, and hey, traveling around growing up with Naomi had taught him that attachment was pointless and only led to disappointment. So maybe she was right and the problem was he'd become too attached to life as an anthropologist, to his life as an observer, as Jim's best friend. But could the loss of all those things really reveal him to be this vile creature? 

The question hung in the air, like a beacon, making him hold his breath and straighten up. 

But the silence gave him the answer he knew he deserved, and the realization flooded through him a little like relief only nowhere near so nice. 

He got to his feet, swaying a little. Then he lifted up his chin, thrust his hands into his pockets, and headed back along the street, away from his building. There was a bar around the corner. A seedy, rat-infested bar catering to the less savory characters in the neighborhood. 

He stepped inside, positive that this was where he belonged. 

* * *

Jim finished up folding the laundry and climbed the stairs to put his clothes away. He could do the ironing later, when the game was on TV. The loft was as clean as he could make it, though it was still disconcerting how little effort it took to keep it pristine now that Sandburg was gone. 

It had surprised him early on to discover that he actually missed the mess his partner had habitually left behind - even to the wet towels on the floor of the bathroom. Apart from a few books and cds, there was nothing left of Blair outside of his bedroom, and Jim never went in there. 

He couldn't. 

There were too many memories in that room, most especially, the memory of the first time Blair had kissed him. 

A memory that continued to haunt him, no matter where he was, what he was doing. So many thoughts rose up in him, day to day, flashes of vision or sound, Blair's voice telling him to back off and calm down while he was at work, or traces of him arguing over what they were going to watch on TV. Every now and then, he'd forget he was cooking only for himself, and make a favorite recipe for two - then have to put the other half in the freezer. 

But worse than that, was the way he missed the friendship. Just having Blair around, a part of his life, a person who made almost everything so much more enjoyable with his enthusiastic input. He missed having somebody there to rely on, to be ... well, to be company when he was on his own, to just have somebody else living in his space. Somebody who had _become_ the space. 

It wasn't as though he hadn't been through this process before. He'd lost count of the friends and family that had passed through his life never to return, and he was only too aware of how it could affect him. But Blair wasn't really gone. Not completely. There was still enough of him lingering in the loft to make his absence feel temporary and to some extent insubstantial. Enough to find Jim lying in bed some nights, half-expecting to hear a key in the door followed by careful footsteps. 

Some nights, after his senses had done a long-range sweep, still looking for something that wasn't there, the longing for Blair to come home kept him awake for hours. 

Suddenly, all desire to be busy doing things drained out of him and he sat on the couch, ignoring the growing darkness, the emptiness and instead, focusing on the smallest traces he could find of Blair. 

There was so little left and yet he needed so much. It seemed the only place Blair existed these days was in his memory and right now, he wanted that memory to form in front of him, three-dimensional and solid, breathing, ready to talk to him, to maybe touch him, let him feel that it was real. 

Five months and he still felt this way. Five months and he actually felt worse now than he did before. Five months and the only thing time had given him was a greater, deeper yawning chasm of understanding of exactly what he'd lost when Blair had walked out of here that morning. 

He wanted it back. All of it. Even the mood swings, the hopelessness, the desperate need for a new future - he didn't care. There had to be a road they could find, something that would give them both answers, but this distance, this torture was _not_ it. 

Okay, so maybe he was just being selfish, wanting Blair back before he was ready - but did it matter when what he wanted was the opportunity to _help_ Blair rebuild his life? Especially if Blair was in love with him - wouldn't that make a difference? 

'Fuck,' he hissed. 'I shouldn't have let him go.' 

That had been his mantra for most of the last five months. He repeated it day and night, deliberately not analyzing his actions on the morning in question, mostly because he knew that if he did, he'd have to accept that he'd had no choice in whether Blair had gone, that he couldn't be entirely sure that he _would_ have stopped Blair if he could. 

But what if they'd done it the night before? What if Jim had managed to overcome his terror of the act and actually had sex with a man, with Blair? Would that have changed Blair's mind? Would that have made him stay? 

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. He blinked a moment, trying to decide if he wanted any kind of company - but curiosity won out and he switched the light on before opening the door. 

Joel stood there with a hopeful smile on his face. 'Hi, Jim.' 

'Hey, Joel. Come in.' He stood back to let the other man inside, closing the door after him. 'Can I get you a beer?' 

'That'd be nice, thanks.' 

'Take a seat.' Jim headed into the kitchen, pulling two beers out of the newly-cleaned fridge. He took them back to the living room and perched on the arm of the chair as his friend took a mouthful of beer. 'So, what brings you to these parts?' 

Joel glanced up at him briefly, then out the window, before turning his attention to his beer bottle. The uncharacteristic pause set warning bells going in Jim's head - but he didn't pre-empt anything. If it was bad news, he could wait until the words were spoken. 

'I'd forgotten,' Joel began quietly before lifting his face with a fake smile. 'I'd forgotten you had the day off today. I would have called you last night but I thought I'd see you at the station this morning. So, I had to wait until now to tell you.' 

'Tell me what?' Jim couldn't keep the hard edge out of his voice. 

'Last night,' Joel swallowed loudly, 'I had a call from Blair.' 

Jim froze. 

'He's fine,' Joel rushed to add. 'There's nothing wrong with him, you know, he just, called to let us know he was okay.' 

Jim took in a breath, unsurprised to find his hands shaking, his eyes stinging, and every sense swinging from sane to crazy without pausing for comment. 'Where is he?' he whispered, half-afraid of the answer. 

'He didn't say. I asked him to give me a number I could call him at, but he changed the subject.' 

'But ... but he's okay? I mean, how did he sound?' 

Joel played at picking the label off the bottle, but answered as fully and completely as he could, obviously trying to forestall Jim's questions, wanting to put him out of his misery as quickly as possible. 'He sounded tired, maybe a little stressed. He's not happy, Jim, but then, I guess I didn't expect him to be. He said he's got a job, that he's got some things in the pipeline and that he's getting his life on track. He doesn't want anybody worrying about him. He just wanted me to let you - let everyone know - that he's doing okay.' 

Jim stared at the older man a moment, then looked away towards the windows. He stood and made for them, his gaze sweeping over the late afternoon sky, and the distant edge of the city. 

Five months. It had taken Blair five months to call to tell them he was okay. Five months to get to a place in himself that could face making such a call. 

Impossible. That wasn't the Blair he knew, wasn't the Blair he missed. Wasn't the man he felt ... well, whatever he was feeling for. 

'He's called before, hasn't he?' Jim didn't turn around, leaving Joel the space to form an answer - though Jim didn't really need to hear it. 'This isn't the first time he's called you.' 

The answer took a moment to come. 'You're right, it isn't.' 

'But he swore you to secrecy, told you not to say anything.' 

'No.' 

'And didn't want you to admit it now so you wouldn't get in the middle of it.' 

Joel's silence was full of answers. 

Standing there, gazing out at the skyline, Jim could just imagine the conversation last night. Blair insisting Joel keep his silence, Joel begging Blair to tell Jim something - anything - to put him out of his misery, Blair giving in eventually as the guilt bore down on him. 

'Just give him time, Jim,' Joel's voice came from close behind - Jim hadn't heard the man move across the room. 'He just needs time. He lost everything, all his plans for the future, so many of his friends. Don't be angry with him.' 

Jim spun around to face his friend. 'You think I'm angry with him? You really think I blame him for this?' 

'Don't you?' 

Jim stopped at that, glancing away, unable to examine too closely his answer to that question. Instead, he said something else, something was also true. 'How could I blame him when this is all _my_ fault?' 

He turned and paced away then, swallowing mouthfuls of beer in his haste to drown his fury. Words flew out of him, filling the loft with his harsh voice, and harsher truth. 'He left because he couldn't stay here any more. He left because he did lose everything. He gave up his life, his career because he wanted the brass ring, only he didn't even get that in the end. I couldn't give him... I couldn't ...' He stopped, his head hung low and the fury was swept out of him, only to be replaced by feelings he thought he'd banished - utter loss and desolation. 'You don't understand, Joel. It was all a lie.' 

He heard footsteps coming closer as Joel asked, 'What was all a lie?' 

Jim looked up then, into dark brown eyes gazing at him with the gentleness of a genuine friend. A friend Blair trusted enough to call at a time like this. A friend too often caught up in the lies that had surrounded their life together. 'The press conference. It was a lie.' 

For a moment, Joel simply frowned in confusion at him, as though trying to remember what and why and how - but then his face cleared, and his eyes widened with surprise, then amazement and finally, understanding. 'Blair's press conference. It wasn't ... wasn't a fraud. His book, I mean. It was all... about you. It was true, wasn't it?' 

Jim finished his beer and made to get another. He drank half of it before giving the only answer he could. 'He threw his life away to save mine, Joel. So now, I have this great life, great job, great friends. Couldn't ask for anything more. I have to live this life to the full or his sacrifice will have been for nothing and that's one thing I simply won't do to him.' And oh, didn't he hate having to say that, didn't that just add heat to the flames of his anger. 

Joel was silent as he came across the room. 'I'm sorry, Jim, I didn't understand. None of us did. I mean, I didn't want to believe he'd do something like that deliberately, so I figured he had to have a good reason to write a fake dissertation. But really, I should have asked him about it, I should have trusted him more. Maybe then he wouldn't have gone.' 

Closing his eyes, Jim shook his head. He turned back to his friend and smiled a little. 'You don't know how many times I've had that conversation with myself.' 

The silence drew out then, making Jim only too aware of the wall clock ticking the seconds away. 

Finally, Joel moved a little, putting his bottle on the counter, pushing his hands into his jacket pocket. 'Well, I guess I should head home. I just stopped by to tell you.' 

'Thanks, Joel, I appreciate the effort. Just, you know, don't tell anybody what I said about-' 

'About you being a sentinel?' Joel half laughed. 'Not sure I believe it myself.' He headed for the door then paused. 'What are you going to do?' 

Jim shrugged. 'What can I do but wait?' 

Joel's gaze narrowed. 'You don't think he's coming back?' 

Jim ran his hand over his face. 'I honestly don't know.' 

Joel simply nodded, said goodnight and was gone, the soft snick of the door the only counterpoint to the emptiness left behind. 

Jim didn't move for a moment, then he slammed his bottle on the counter, strode to the balcony doors and threw them wide open, leaning his elbows on the bricks, bending over them to breathe, to let loose the unquenchable anger Blair's departure had left burning inside him. 

Failure had never been something he'd dealt with well. And he'd failed big time here. He'd had the man in his arms, in his bed, holding him, hoping to love him and yet afraid to all at the same time. His self-doubt, his hesitation had cost him the best thing that had ever happened to him and at the rate he was going, he wasn't ever going to get the chance to make up for it, to fix things, to get Blair the hell back in his arms, in his bed, or even just in his life. 

For five months, he'd forced himself to go with it, to let it lie. To give Blair the space he needed, give him the respect and trust he needed to go away and find himself again, work out what he needed to work out. For five damned months he'd just accepted that Blair would come back but each day that he didn't only reduced the odds that he would, until now - now that he'd let Joel talk about it - it was becoming increasingly obvious that not only was Blair not able to come back - but that he didn't really have anything to come back _to_. 

And that, above all else, _was_ Jim's fault. 

If Blair did return, he would still have no job, couldn't be a cop, couldn't even teach. He couldn't study, or use his current qualifications to even get him on an expedition. He'd lost most of his friends at the university, and his increased absence could even lose him the remaining friends he had at the PD. 

And most of all, he didn't - or couldn't - have the relationship with Jim that he needed. 

So maybe Blair had been right to go. That yes, for them to embark upon a romantic, sexual relationship at that time would have been catastrophic for both of them. Jim had wanted - needed - to take it slowly, but Blair couldn't wait for that, couldn't hold onto that as a vague promise. So he'd gone. 

And nothing had changed. Five months later, Jim still couldn't offer him anything more. 

He straightened up, breathing deeply as Blair had taught him, visualizing letting the anger flow out of him into the evening air. It helped only because it was some part of Blair that had remained in him, some part that he needed to live. 

When he opened his eyes, the truth sat there on the air, waiting for him to see it. 

He was in love with Blair Sandburg. 

Yeah, actually in love. 

He sighed, his gaze rising to the sky, absently picking out stars that peeked out between the light, shifting clouds. 

What kind of idiot was he that he could have missed something as obvious as that? Wasn't he supposed to be a detective? Wasn't he supposed to pay attention to evidence? And now that he was paying attention, the evidence was all around him. The emptiness of his home, of his life, the constant thoughts about Blair, the anger, the frustration, the desire to put his fist through a wall some days. And more, the touching, the kissing, the ... sexual attraction he'd been feeling, regardless of his fear, or perhaps, in spite of it. 

And the overwhelming desire, need, to do absolutely anything within his power to keep Blair here - even if it meant going to bed with him, embarking on a relationship with him that Jim could barely comprehend let alone participate in. 

Yeah, he was in love, all right. Embarrassingly so. 

Well, they'd discussed his habit of repressing stuff he didn't want to think about - but this one really took the cake. 

So he was in love with Blair. He had no choice but to believe it, considering the rather alarming wash of contentment that flowed over him at the thought. 

But was it really possible that he could actually be in love with a man? 

The answer shot right back at him, reflexes sharp: yes, without any trouble at all. 

But what was he to do about it? Just knowing this wasn't going to get Blair back. He would only come on his own, under his own steam, when he was ready. But if he came back today, what could Jim offer him but more of the same indecision, hesitation and denial? Knowing there was love there now wouldn't make a relationship between them possible all on its own. And besides, he was no closer to _doing_ anything about a relationship than he had been the day Blair had gone. 

So, maybe there was something Jim could do. If Blair ever did come back, it was up to Jim to give him something worth staying for. It was the only kind of action Jim could understand, the one thing he had to hold onto. 

He went back inside, collected his beer and sat down at the table with pen and paper. He had to make a list. There had to be changes, and working out what those changes were was the first step along the road. 

He was still scared. Still worried. But he wasn't going to let fear stop him. 

Not this time. 

* * *

Waking up was so bad Blair closed his eyes again hoping he'd pass out. But he'd done it now, the captured pain exploding in his head like his own personal pile driver, thumping fifty-foot spikes into the back of his neck. 

He groaned, managing only to turn his head and instantly, the stench hit him like a brick wall. Breathing in short pants, he lifted himself up. He was sprawled on the floor, the phone, the ratty carpet, the legs of the worn chair and his body covered in stinking vomit. His own. He even had the bottle still clenched in his hand. It was empty. Worse still, as he rose a little more, he could see three more like it in various positions around the floor, half obscured by empty pizza boxes and something that looked suspiciously like- 

No. It couldn't be. He hadn't, had he? 

Then his abused bladder kicked in, warning him of imminent danger and he was forced to move. Slowly, he rolled to his side, lifting himself to his feet with gasps and groans against the pain. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him, making him stagger until he caught himself against the wall, pausing to breathe, his lungs hurting as much as everything else. But every breath he took only reminded him of the smell - and not just the vomit and old food. He smelt urine as well, and ... other things he didn't want to think about. 

He gulped in air, worked out where the bathroom was and walked carefully towards it, touching the wall with his fingers to steady himself, reaching it finally with a gratitude he'd never imagined before this day. Relieving himself felt so good he almost cried. Done, he pulled off all his clothes and stepped under the shower. The hot water made a huge difference, and soon he could open his eyes enough to find soap and shampoo. It was on his second scrub, getting into all the intimate places, that he discovered that something else was sore. 

He stopped, a shiver rushing through him despite the hot shower. He held onto the wall as memories flooded through him, of times he couldn't pinpoint, incidents that seemed disjointed but also connected. He could see himself buying more bourbon at the bar, back here ordering pizza, and he wasn't alone. There was another guy, older, with a beard and tattoos and a different night where he'd let himself get fucked by two different guys, each of them holding him down while the other did him. 

He shuddered. Nausea swelled up in his stomach and he managed to lurch out of the shower in time to make it to the toilet. He fell to his knees as his insides rejected more and more of the abuse he'd hurled at it over a period of time he could only guess at. Empty, aching and now freezing, he got up, flushed and stepped back into the shower. Thank god the water was still hot. He washed again, probing his anus carefully for tears and signs of blood. There were none, evidence that even the profoundly stupid could receive a little luck from time to time. 

Feeling a little cleaner, and only on the outside, he turned off the water and grabbed a towel which looked mostly fresh. He made a point of not looking in the mirror. He could shave later. Then he steeled himself to go back into the bedroom and take a better look at the damage - but a second look only made him more nauseated. Instead, he rummaged in a drawer and pulled out thankfully clean clothes. Jeans, a t-shirt and a sweater. No socks however, so he pulled on his boots without. 

He didn't stop for another look around. Instead, he found his keys and headed out - surprised to find the sun shining and the time to be about four in the afternoon. 

He cringed at the sunlight at first, wishing he'd paused long enough to find his shades. But he gritted his teeth and ventured forth out of the apartment block and into the street. He looked both ways until he could find a small grocery store where he bought aspirin, juice, water, large plastic trash bags, paper toweling and a super strength cleaning fluid. He drank one juice and carried the others back, swallowing aspirin as he walked. He returned to his room wishing he was really ready to face the music. 

He started in the bathroom, though that wasn't so much better than the other rooms. He piled all his filthy clothes into a trash bag, along with empty bottles, broken glasses, bits of food he couldn't identify and a used condom he couldn't even look at. The fact that it was used didn't bother him - it was that he couldn't remember _how_ it had been used or who had used it on him. 

He had to wrap a hand towel around his mouth to control his stomach's reaction to the smell. But he got down on his knees and scrubbed, the floor, the toilet, the shower, most of the tiled walls and finally the vanity. Only the mirror seemed to have come through unscathed - and he got his first unwilling, and extremely unhappy look at himself after what looked like at least a week's worth of bingeing. 

There were bags under his eyes - that was no shock. He had a few days' growth on his chin, also no shock. What did shock him was the stitches at the end of his left eyebrow, the sulking bruise on his right cheek and an older bruise by the edge of his mouth, alongside a cut that seemed a few days old. 

Nausea threatened again and he reached for the bottled water to help hold it back. 

In the name of god, what had he done to himself? 

His brain, usually so loquacious, sat stubbornly silent this time, so he returned to his cleaning, no choice left but to deal with immediacies until memory returned. 

He started by the door and worked his way across the room, first collecting all the trash then straightening furniture before washing it down. He then tackled the carpet, and the walls and yes, even the curtain and window. The sheets he pulled off the bed, not bothering to look for more signs of what had been done to his body. He put them in a separate bag to go to the laundry. Then, since he was as ready as he could be, he lifted that last pizza box and took a good look at what lay under it. 

He didn't touch it, but instead, sank down onto the bedside table, now washed and only slightly damp. His heart thumped in his chest, the sulking headache threatening to come alive again and the nausea once more made him gag and swallow hard. 

A thin strip of rubber. A teaspoon. A box of matches. Some tin foil, now empty, and a syringe with needle still attached, traces of some milky substance inside. 

He had to slow down his breathing or he'd start to hyperventilate. He had to remember. Those guys - how many had he slept with? He'd found another used condom on the bedroom floor - but was that enough? 

And who had used the drugs? Was that why he couldn't remember? 

Terror drove him to his feet, ignoring his headache, making him pace up and down. 

Oh, god, this couldn't be happening! This wasn't what he was about! He was _totally_ opposed to all this, everything that had happened in this room, the booze, the reckless sex, the drugs, the hideous well of self pity - all of it. How the hell had he allowed any of this to happen? 

He had to remember - but sitting here wasn't getting him anywhere. He had to calm down and let the memories come. He had to remember, or he'd never be able to live with himself. 

Using the rubber gloves he'd purchased, he collected the kit up and put all but the needle in the plastic bag. The needle he washed with soap and water, then pushed it against the tiles until it bent and folded, the sharp tip snapping off. Only when it was utterly unusable, did he wrap it carefully in cardboard and consign to the trash. 

The room was as clean as he could make it, so he opened the windows to let in some air, put away his cleaning stuff and picked up the trash and laundry. He headed out, dumping the trash out back before going to the laundry for the sheets. He'd collect them later. 

He went walking then, deliberately not thinking about anything further than finding a market to get some bananas and bread. He got some fresh apple juice as well and turned into the first park he came across. He found an empty park bench, and sat, eating handmade banana sandwiches and sipping his juice. As each mouthful went down, he began to feel a bit better, the headache finally began to subside and his whole balance shifted to something near normal. 

He would remember, if he could manage to get himself calm enough to meditate. And there was good evidence on his side - he'd washed his whole body twice and found no signs of needle use in any place he could see. Though sore, his anus had not been split, so there'd been no blood. And there were two used condoms, suggesting that even in his alcohol infested mind, he'd remembered the need for safe sex. So the odds were in his favor, but he needed the memories back to be sure. 

But still he didn't push it. He just sat there, finished with his supper, throwing bits of bread to birds who swooped down in front of him. Around him children played with Frisbees and footballs, dogs ran around their owners, and busy workers crossed the park on their way home at the end of the working day. 

What day was it? 

A man walked towards him, a newspaper under his arm, heading home. Blair stopped him, pretending he just wanted to see the headlines on the paper. The guy showed him and he said thanks, letting him go on his way. 

Wednesday the 5th. He'd called Joel on the on the 26th. His binge had lasted nine days. 

But - he quickly reminded himself, before the horror could take over again - he was still alive, in one piece with only a few bruises, and okay, stitches. He still had money in his pocket. He had enough time and money to both remember what he had done in the past, and work out what he was going to do in the future. 

First off, he had to meditate, if he could - and he couldn't remember a time when it was more important that he do so. Making the most of the sunshine, he headed back to his room and closed the door behind him, making sure it was locked - along with the windows. He drank some water then sat on the floor, in full lotus, getting his breathing under control, calming his thoughts, comforting himself with the reminder that the truth was better than not knowing. 

Ready and prepared, he began to sink deep, letting everything around him vanish into nothingness. 

* * *

Jim made it up the stairs without dropping any of his packages and bags, but he had to put down something before he could get out keys and open the door. As usual these days, the loft was silent and empty, but he was getting used to that now. 

He went straight to the kitchen first, stowing away the groceries and placing a can of soup on to heat for dinner. He'd bought fresh seeded rolls to go with it, and warmed them in the oven while he opened a beer. After that, he stopped by the bathroom, then collected the laundry hamper and jogged downstairs to put it on while he had dinner. 

He sat on the couch and ate, catching up on the news on TV until he was finished. He washed his dishes, put them away, made sure the kitchen was spotless, then took a shower, doing everything with the same measure of deliberateness as he had the moment he'd walked out of that store this afternoon. 

The last week and a half since his earth-shattering realization had been one of the most difficult since Blair had left. Not so much during the day, when he had work to concentrate on, and things to keep him busy, but more so during the evenings and other times when he was on his own. And of course, at night. Man, the nights were worst of all. 

It was a side-effect he hadn't been expecting at all. Considering the difficulties he'd had while Blair was actually here, it had come as something of a shock to discover that his day-dreams, and plenty of his night-dreams as well, consisted of remembering what Blair had felt like to hold, how he tasted when Jim kissed him. 

How incredible it had been to feel Blair get hard against him. 

And that would be only the start. From there on, it was the slippery slide into hell ... so to speak. Then would come the memories of every single time he'd seen Blair semi-naked, every time he'd sensed Blair was attracted to somebody close by and began exuding pheromones, those damned little moans and groans he'd let out on those nights when they'd kissed. 

From that point onwards, his dreams tried desperately to get a little more R-rated - and promptly failed miserably due to his distinct lack of imagination. At least, he hoped that's what it was. The frustration was killing him. He would get hard without warning, begin to enjoy the memory or fantasy or whatever was going on in his head - and then abruptly, it would stop and he couldn't make it go again. 

And now that he knew the truth, now that he understood that he was actually, physically in love, he didn't want the dreams to stop. Sure, he'd been surprised that they'd come on suddenly like that - but he figured it was his subconscious's way of letting loose things he'd repressed. And he was glad of that, really. He just wished there was something more he could do than get hard and frustrated. 

Besides, unless he actually followed through with one of these fantasies, he'd never be completely positive of being able to offer Blair anything but hugs and kisses - and what kind of hell was that to consign two men in love? 

It was hard to know if you were turned on by the prospect of having sex with a man, when you simply couldn't picture it. Couldn't even imagine what two naked men looked like lying together. Or kissing. 

In the last week, he'd bought and read two very different books on sexuality, and on homosexuality in particular. He had another two books waiting for him. But reading about how sexuality was defined, or how it was determined was one thing - letting himself feel aroused by touching another man's body was another thing entirely. 

During a week and more of hard thinking, he'd come to only two conclusions: one, that he had frequently over the years, noticed the attractiveness of men and their bodies and two, that he wanted to know more, wanted to _feel_ more, was willing to take a few risks to find out some answers. 

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't still afraid, because he was - possibly more so now than before. What it did mean was that he was no longer ignorant, and that made a difference. That alone was enough to let him take a few steps forward. Small steps perhaps, but in the right direction. 

With only a towel wrapped around his waist, he checked the locks, the windows, the fire-escape door and then collected the brown paper bag he'd left sitting on the table before heading upstairs to bed. Though he didn't really need it, he switched on the beside lamp, pulled back the covers, dropped the bag there and spread the towel out. More than a little self-conscious now, he laid down on it and with hands trembling a little, he opened the paper bag allowing the contents to slide onto the bed. 

The first sight of it was shocking to his eyes - though he'd spent a great deal of time choosing it this afternoon simply because it was the least shocking he could find. But it was more than that really - it was the fact that he was lying naked on his bed with it, ready and prepared to be aroused by it, a journey into the erotic unknown. Something he hadn't done since he was a teenager. 

He glanced down at his body, only faintly surprised now to see he'd left his legs open a little, that his cock was already half hard, his nipples raised as though in anticipation. Then, with a half laugh at his own silliness, he finally picked up the magazine and opened to the first page. He stayed with that page for a while, not touching himself, not analyzing what he saw with sentinel eyes. Instead, he just looked, as he would look at pictures of naked women. The naked men had good bodies, not dissimilar to his own, but of course, it wasn't the bodies he was looking at - but what they were doing with them. 

Sucking mostly. Each other. Three of them on this page, one standing, two on their knees in front of him, tongues working the erection, his head thrown back in pleasure. Only when he was sure the shock had worn off completely, did Jim allow himself to turn the page, and after a while, the next and the next. But after that, things weren't so easy because he was as hard as a rock, his hands needed down below, stroking, keeping in time with his panting breaths, stroking his balls and reaching behind to his perineum. 

Dear god, but that felt good, and those pictures, and the blonde guy was fucking the other one and Jim had to move his hands faster, but he couldn't look and masturbate at the same time so he let himself rest back, spreading his legs wide and let his hands pump faster and faster, fucking his fist and moaning, the pictures of those men flooding through his head until the inevitable happened, and one of those men became Blair and the other himself and then he was spurting all over his hand, his stomach, his balls and the towel. 

It took a long time for him to come down, a little dizzy and yet, quietly pleased with what he'd accomplished. Until now, he hadn't been sure he could do it, that he could look at another man's body and feel a desire to have sex with him. Now, he could think of nothing else. 

With a faint smile on his face, he wiped himself clean with the towel, carefully set the magazine aside without closing it, then went downstairs and poured himself a whiskey, thoroughly enjoying standing in the living room utterly naked, thinking about masturbating again tonight, while looking at his gay porn magazine. 

So it turned out he was bi after all. And hey - the sky hadn't fallen. He'd read enough about how modern society suppressed sexuality to know that this was just the start. 

But it _was_ a start - and not just for Blair's sake. Looking at those pictures had allowed his imagination to blossom and flourish, bringing forth images of him and Blair together. It had been thrilling enough to bring him to climax - and very quickly at that. But there was something else it had shown him, something both unsurprising and yet, a little shocking. 

He _liked_ looking at naked men. Liked it a lot. But somewhere along the line, he'd managed to suppress that part of himself as well and now, because of Blair, and his need for Blair, that part of him was rattling loose, flexing its muscles and wanting to be used. 

Yeah, he would masturbate again tonight and he would think of Blair. But most of all, he would let himself feel the freedom of doing so. 

* * *

When Blair finally opened his eyes, he had to blink hard because his vision was too blurred to see. As he took a welcome breath, he rubbed his hands over his face, not surprised to find it wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. 

He felt better. Under other circumstances, he might even have felt good. 

He remembered everything. 

Nine days of trying to forget everything, even how to think. Nine days of vodka, gin, rotgut bourbon - and nothing else. No drugs of any kind, and certainly none that had come out of a needle. The needle belonged to another guy, but that guy hadn't fucked him. The condoms had been used by the two guys he'd had in his room last night. They'd each had him during their ... party. He remembered drunkenly insisting that nobody touch him without a rubber - and never having had a guy before, they'd been too eager to refuse. 

And he remembered feeling sick, throwing up first in the bathroom, then later on the bedroom floor - and that's when the guys had decided he was no fun any more, and had left. 

The question was, would they be back? He certainly didn't want them back. He didn't want any more bingeing - that sick fear about what he'd done was enough to cure him of drinking permanently. 

He looked at his watch then stood up, stretching slowly as he'd been taught. Then he headed out to pick up the laundry. By the time he got back, he was hungry again. He found some old bread in the kitchen, made some tea and toast while he packed. 

It was almost nine by the time he stepped out into the darkness and began walking to the bus station. He could've got a taxi, but he wanted to save the money, and the exercise would be good for his still-shaky hangover. If he was going to spend the next 3 days on a bus, he needed to stretch his legs now. 

So he'd traveled, and then he'd stopped. He'd thought stopping might be a destination in itself and made the near-fatal mistake of believing that. But now it was time to change direction, time to move. Time to find what he'd lost when he'd thrown his life away. Time to find out what he had left. 

Trouble was, he had no idea how to do that. He only knew that he couldn't do it here, and he couldn't do it in Cascade. 

But he could take one thing with him, something that was small and perhaps inconsequential in the bigger scheme of things, but it was his own, his real self and it _mattered_. Despite a nine day binge, he'd refused to punish himself with drugs, refused to let those men use his body without protecting himself against potentially deadly disease. No matter the alcohol and self-loathing that had coursed through his body, he'd managed to retain enough of himself to survive it. 

So when the midnight bus for San Diego pulled out of the station, Blair was on it, already settled down for the long journey, eyes finally wide open. 

End Part 3  
To be continued in Without Fear Part 4 

* * *

* * *

End Without Fear 3 by Scala: scala8925@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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